“Think again,” he said wickedly. “You see, I have little to lose at this point. But you’ll be losing her”—he pressed the barrel of the gun into the side of Francesca’s face—“or at least her pretty face, if she survives.” He sighed. “My guess is that whatever it is the bitch made you feel for her, you still feel it.”
“Don’t bet on it,” I said, trying to sound convincing. “I personally don’t give a damn if she lives or dies—not after everything she’s put me through!”
While he wrestled with my feelings, I took the moment to try and fill in some blanks. “Why did you kill your wife, Sinclair?” I asked. “Was it the money? Or because she was planning to leave you? Was it to keep her from testifying against you or because you found out she was in love with another woman?”
He bared his teeth. “It was all of the above,” he said maliciously. “She planned to leave me high and dry. And for what? A lesbian slut. I couldn’t allow that to happen—”
“So you used her face as a punching bag, then raped and murdered her instead?”
Sinclair seemed to take delight in his thoughts. “No, Drake—you beat up, raped, and murdered Catherine! It was the perfect plan. Why not set up the private dick asshole that Frank Sherman hired to find that Worm, Jessie Wylson?” Sinclair eyed his frightened captive. “With her posing as my wife, you would fall in lust before killing Catherine as a scorned jealous lover. I guessed that Sherman would find a way to keep you out of jail long enough to find Wylson—”
“But you hadn’t counted on crooked Officers Muncie and Cornwell wanting The Worm even more than you and not really giving a damn who got burned along the way, as long as it wasn’t them.”
As irony would have it, Muncie and Cornwell had gone up in smoke, along with The Worm. They had more or less signed their own death warrants the moment they decided to play both sides of the crooked street.
“Jessie can’t run and hide from you any longer,” I said. “The Worm’s head was blown off this evening, in case you hadn’t heard.”
“Wylson’s dead,” Sinclair said gloatingly. “As far as I’m concerned, those dumb ass cops did me a favor. Without Wylson’s testimony, the D.A.’s got no case against me.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” I crept a step or two closer to him. “The police have already cleared me of your wife’s murder. And they know you used Francesca to set us both up. So why not put the gun down and just walk away—alone.”
He chortled. “In your dreams, asshole.” He cocked the gun at Francesca’s temple, forcing me to stop my advance. “Why don’t we all take a walk into the bedroom?”
“Forget it, Sinclair.” My voice echoed across the room. “I’m not into threesomes.”
“Neither am I,” he said lewdly. “But I am into splattering her brains all over your walls if you don’t drop that gun—now!” He teased her face with the barrel. “Do it!”
Rather than take him out and risk injuring Francesca, I decided to go along with Sinclair’s insane demands. Something told me that whatever he had in mind, it wasn’t to shoot me right on the spot. Meaning I still had time to gain the upper hand.
I put the gun down slowly.
“Okay, man,” I said evenly, hands up. “I’m unarmed. Now let her go—”
He disregarded my words as if they meant nothing to him and his warped plans, while indicating the bedroom with his gun. “In there, Drake. We’ll follow—”
I walked deliberately. “I heard a shot that night when I came to your wife’s rescue, Sinclair,” I said, trying to keep him talking. “But the police never found any shell casings or bullet holes. How did you manage that?”
“I would have thought being an ex-cop, you’d have figured that out by now,” he said cynically. “I used blanks. Really clever, wouldn’t you say?”
I played along. “Obviously you had everything planned to a T.”
In the bedroom, Francesca gazed at me through teary eyes. I looked at her knowingly, as if to say this isn’t over with yet. Not by a long shot.
Just try to stay calm.
Looking at Sinclair, who had a firm grip on Francesca’s upper arm, I asked pointedly: “So now that we’ve seen where I sleep, where do we go from here?”
He flashed a maniacal grin, then ripped Francesca’s blouse open, exposing her chest, and threw her down on the bed.
“History is going to repeat itself,” boasted Sinclair, pointing his weapon at me. “You see, you’re going to strangle this bitch the same way you strangled my wife. Only, afterwards, this time you’re going to put your own gun to your head and pull the trigger. A murder-suicide. The police will no doubt believe this slut lied about me and you killed her and yourself to end your own damned guilt and misery. Case closed. No other witnesses or loose ends to stand in my way.” He aimed cold, callous eyes at me. “Now let’s see how fast you can strip, Drake—”
I glanced at Francesca, who lay there awkwardly, her arms trying unsuccessfully to cover her generous breasts. No amount of money Sinclair paid her could compensate for the precarious position she now found herself in.
I began removing my shirt, facing Sinclair, whose gun hand had not wavered. “You don’t really think you’ll get away with this, do you?”
His nostrils flared. “Why the hell not? Regardless, you won’t be around to know one way or the other.”
I was down to my briefs. “That’s enough, I hope?”
“Not really. You’re going to use those to strangle the bitch.” He laughed. “Or it will be made to look that way.”
I pulled them off and tossed them to the floor. Francesca had already gotten under the covers, as if they somehow would protect her from a madman. I slid in beside her.
“You two really do make a tantalizing couple,” quipped Sinclair obnoxiously. “The white stripper and the black private dick looking to get his jollies one last time—”
While Sinclair was humoring himself, he let his guard down just long enough for me to grab hold of the 9 millimeter Glock I kept under the pillow. With a single, well-placed shot, I dropped him where he stood. His gun fired once into the ceiling. Before he could even attempt to get off another shot, I was on top of him like flies on rotting beef.
Quickly, I planted two solid right hands to the jaw and a left upper cut under the chin. He collapsed to the floor like a Mike Tyson opponent.
Sinclair’s lights were turned off, but not permanently. Death too soon was too good for him. I had blown out his kneecap, guaranteeing that he’d find it difficult to walk straight anymore, let alone run. Where he was headed, he wouldn’t have much need to do either.
Francesca sprang from the bed, half-naked, and tearfully embraced me. “I thought he would kill us,” she wept.
“Not a chance,” I told her brashly. “His killing days are over.”
We stood there for a moment, body to body, but with absolutely no sexual undercurrents. Survival had a way of making one numb to the bare essentials.
By the time Gregory Sinclair had come to, he was already in police custody and in for some tough times.
I let Francesca borrow a sweatshirt and see herself home. There were no goodbyes. Only good luck and thanks for some of the memories.
Meanwhile, Vanessa gave me a whole new reason for living and loving. In turn, I gave her an all too real dose of the sometimes topsy-turvy world of private investigation.
It gave us something to build on.
CHAPTER FORTY
I introduced Vanessa to Gus on a night in which Jasmine’s featured a velvety smooth singer in the tradition of Luther Vandross.
“Nice to meet you, Gus,” Vanessa gushed. “You’ve got a real fan in D.J. He speaks quite highly of you.”
It was one of the few times I’d seen Gus speechless. When he did open up, he said sheepishly: “Don’t believe anything this dude tells you. D.J. has always been big on exaggeration. The man will do anything to try ‘n get some free drinks outta me.”
Vanessa laughed. “I’ll try to
remember that.”
Gus winked at her. “Drinks are on the house,” he declared. “But only because Drake had the good sense to introduce such a lovely lady to the club.”
“I’m forever indebted, man,” I said, and we shook on it.
He left us alone and Vanessa and I settled down to some good old-fashioned jazz. My cast had been removed a week ago and I was just starting to get used to feeling my arm around her.
While we played footsies, I said to Vanessa: “Is this heaven, or what?”
She flashed me an effervescent smile. “The music reminds me of you: alluring, mature, intense, with a lingering aftereffect—”
I raised my glass merrily. “I’ll definitely toast to that.”
If Marilyn Francesca Collins aka Catherine Ashley Sinclair now seemed like a bad nightmare from which I almost never woke up, Vanessa King remained my vision of the ideal woman.
This was one time when fate seemed to have dealt me a kind hand. I knew that one way or another, Vanessa was destined to stay in my dreams forever.
One day at a time...
* * *
The days seemed to turn into years overnight. Most dreams died hard and this one was certainly no exception.
I locked eyes with Vanessa, half expecting the lady and her companion to pass by me like time itself had. But she stopped, as though a victim to my will.
“Give me a moment,” she told the man holding her hand. “I’ll meet you inside.”
He nodded, though clearly less than thrilled to let her out of his sight. I felt the same way and wondered where it had all gone wrong.
“What a surprise running into you,” Vanessa said, flashing a toothy smile.
“Same here,” I said. “You look great.”
“Thank you.” She blushed. “How many years has it been?”
“At least ten.” The words sounded hollow in my ears.
“Wow. That long?” She gave me a thoughtful look. “So how have you been?”
“Same old, same old,” I told her. “In the P.I. business, one day often blends into the next.”
“I remember.”
I was trying to forget. Especially when I saw in front of me just what I’d loved and lost.
Our eyes locked. “We had some good times together.”
“Yes,” she said and squeezed my hand. “I’ll never forget them.”
“Neither will I.”
We stood there awkwardly for a few moments, neither of us sure what to say or not to.
It was Vanessa who broke the ice. “Well, I’d better join my friend, before he gets lonely in there.”
I could relate much more than I cared to admit. “I understand.”
“Nice seeing you again,” Vanessa said.
“You, too,” I told her, forcing a grin.
I stood there in downtown Portland and watched the lady who had once given me a real reason to get out of bed every day walk into the restaurant and out of my life once again.
By the time I’d flagged down a cab and checked my BlackBerry for messages, all that was left to do was soak up the memories and move on to my next case for better or worse.
# # #
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
R. Barri Flowers is an award winning, bestselling author of crime, mystery, thriller, suspense, and young adult fiction. His novels include DARK STREETS OF WHITECHAPEL, JUSTICE SERVED, KILLER IN THE WOODS, MURDER IN MAUI, PERSUASIVE EVIDENCE, STATE'S EVIDENCE, CHRISTMAS WISHES, GHOST GIRL IN SHADOW BAY, and DANGER IN TIME.
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Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery Page 20
